


A Terran a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Peter is an okay nurse, Sickfic, Yondu is a terrible patient, but with lots of snark, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9184492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Yondu is not sick, Yondu is not hiding from his crew, and Yondu does not want Peter there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Guess who's ill (and taking it out on my fave characters, of course)?**

Yondu has three categories of blame, around which all misdeeds pivot. These are, from least to most frequently cited, ‘Kraglin’s fault’, ‘Crew’s fault’, and ‘Quill’s fault’.

This is undoubtedly the latter.

“Flarkin’ mutiny,” he spits, twisting from the torturer who leans over him, flannel in hand. Sweaty sheets cling to his skin. Yondu’s been stripped to his undershirt, like a crab pried from its shell. His cracked leather overcoat is draped across his gaoler’s shoulders, who’s relishing the opportunity to prance around his captain’s clothes while Yondu’s lips are too dry for whistling. Smug little brat. “Dammit, Quill. I’m gonna flay you. Keel-haul ya without no space mask, then roast ya over the canons, then chop you up and feed ya to my boys piece by piece…”

“Mm-hmm.” Quill’s smirk looks disturbingly familiar to the one that greets Yondu in the mirror most mornings. “Maybe when you can stand up to piss without my help, old man.”

Quill is fifteen and Yondu is thirty-five (or thereabouts; ain’t like he keeps track). He resents being called _old man_ by some green-nosed brat who ain’t been among the stars long enough to cultivate the healthy jaded cynicism that keeps their kind sane. He bristles, snap-back at the ready. But when his mouth opens, all that comes out is a cough. It’s a chest rattler: the sort that makes his intercostal muscles cramp, and blood rush to his head like he’s been hung upside-down by the ankles and given a thorough shaking.

Quill squeezes the flannel over his forehead, in lieu of being able to help in any productive fashion. The drip is like Chinese water torture, as maddening as it’s constant. But it distracts from the coughs. By the time Yondu’s flushed the tickle from his throat (bright blue in the face and wet around the eyes, rolled onto his side so he doesn’t have to face the brat’s mockery – or worse, _sympathy_ ) he’s forgotten what he was going to say.

“You’re fuckin’ fired,” he chokes instead. “This is all yer fault, don’t even try to deny it.” A few clicks slip in. They do that, when Yondu’s tired, or hurting, or compromised (anything but _sick_ ). Peter frowns.

“Uh, Yondu? You sound like a football rattle. Maybe I should fetch Doc Mijo –“

Yondu snatches his wrist, fast as a viper. Well. Maybe not a _viper._ Maybe an old and overfed constrictor. But he doesn’t miss – or Quill shifts his arm so it’s in reach; same difference – and that’s what matters. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he hisses. Fixes him with a bloodshot blue-red eye. “Yer the one that brought this damn contagion on board, even if it only gave ya the snuffles. Means _you_ get to keep me company until you’ve learnt yer lesson.”

Peter makes a face at the sweatiness of his palm. “And lie to the crew, telling them you’re laid out from a boozer? They aren’t stupid. They’ll figure it out for themselves, soon enough.” A pause. “Okay, so not _all_ of them are stupid. Take Kraglin. If you’re not back to normal by tomorrow, he’s gonna come knocking…” He trails off, easing slippery fingers from his wrist and folding the blue hand back onto his captain’s heaving chest. The concern in his gaze is disconcerting. Dammit, Yondu’s supposed to be the one who protects him; the one who smacks him upside the head when he’s about to mortally offend the chick he’s chatting up at the bar, the one who drags him away from firefights, the one who stops Taserface from adding ‘fresh Terran’ to the menu whenever the brat misbehaves. Not the other way around.

“Uh. Yondu? Boss? Why don’t you just tell them all you’re sick? I mean, crew’d understand, right? Happens to everyone. Ain’t nothing you can do about it – just rest up until you’re better. They wouldn’t think that’s you being weak, surely?”

There’s so many imbecilic assumptions compounded into that little speech that Yondu doesn’t know where to start. He targets the most obvious first. “Okay. One, I ain’t sick –“ Another coughing fit disrupts them. Peter patiently waits for it to be over. His eyebrows have quirked into a profoundly sarcastic expression of ‘sure, captain; I believe you.’ Yondu would punch him, but suspects he’s about as capable of leaving bruises as he is of finishing a damn sentence without hacking up a lung. “Two,” he manages, wiping phlegm and spit from his underlip (and flipping Quill a middle finger at the quiet ‘ew’) “Ravager Admirals ain’t _everyone._ No sick days on our pay-roll.”

It’s true. In his line of work, you’ve gotta be bigger than you. You’ve got to be nastier, badder, and tougher than any mere individual. It’s about creating a name for yourself. Only more than that: it’s about creating a mythos, a legend, and then fighting tooth and nail to live up to it. Every day, every hour, Yondu’s gotta match up to his biggest rival – the image of himself he’s spun in the minds of crew and enemy alike.

He doesn’t trust himself to say all of that without coughing. And a dumb Terran hick like Peter wouldn’t understand him if he tried.

His eyes are hot, and every breath rubs his tonsils sandpaper raw. Dryness prickles the roof of his mouth, tongue like a parched, cracked riverbed. Yondu’s weathered worse. Course he has. But when you’re nursing a hole in your abdomen courtesy of a plasma bolt, or a ragged slice from where your crest’s been shorn off, internal bone structure and all, your need for rest and recuperation is respected. Those are proper Ravager wounds, incurred in the heat of battle (or a bar brawl and a mandingo slave duel, if we’re being specific). Flu? Not on that list.

Right now, Yondu’s vulnerable. Any self-serving a-hole could stick a knife between his eyes without incurring the crew’s wrath. And if Yondu’s vulnerable, Quill might as well be an open sore – a weak spot just begging for exploitation.

“Get me some water,” he growls, tipping sideways on the pillow – and wincing as a headache surges to life, knotting his forehead into premature creases. “If you can bring yerself to be useful rather than just a pest, that is.”

“No way, sir,” says Quill, disgustingly chipper. “You know I only came here because Taserface is way more likely to eat me when you’re not around. Don’t remember signing up to be no nursemaid _._ ”

The safest place for Peter is right here by his side. But if Yondu takes a turn for the worse during the night, that won’t stay true for much longer. Yondu wonders if Peter has worked this out. He wonders if he should mention it, just in case – or whether that’ll make Quill up and desert him sooner. He wonders if it’s selfish to hope that the kid’s stupid sentimentality means he stays by Yondu until the last possible moment, when the crew rips open the doors and roasts the both of them alive. He decides that yes, it is – but as a proud space pirate, selfishness is in his blood. Whether he’s gonna bid adios to the stars under Taserface’s meat-cleaver, or from the fever currently frying his brain, he’s gonna have Peter with him, and that’s all that matters.

Peter hasn’t picked up on Yondu’s morbid train of thought. Despite his claims for not being a nursemaid, he takes pity on his captain and hops from the desk chair, which he’d dragged over to the bed for the purpose of mocking Yondu’s sorry carcass in comfort. He bounds to the basin. That’s one of the luxuries of being captain: running water comes direct to your cabin, so you don’t have to tramp to the nearest wash racks every time you’re thirsty. It’s great for when you’re hungover, and a fucking lifesaver when you’re sick. Yondu just hopes he’s still captain once the flu’s wracked its way through. He won’t be taking all those little bonuses for granted anymore. Although, he thinks as Peter delivers the glass (after nicking a sip for himself, and scrunching his nose at the rusty taste) he should really see about getting a filtration system.

“Hey Quill,” he croaks, struggling to push himself up onto his elbows. Quill, holding the glass, dithers over helping – but decides it’s safer to let Yondu handle this himself when he gets bared silver teeth and a snarl for his troubles. “You bring yer damn music box?”

“You’re asking for my music? Are you dying?” Quill holds the chipped mug at a sippable level, because Yondu’s hands are shaking and he’d only slop it over himself. While he recognizes the necessity, Yondu doesn’t accept this gracefully. He sneers at Quill when he tips the mug away in time to stop him choking. “Don’t die, boss. You’re the only person who doesn’t make good on your threats to eat me. I think I’d miss you, if you were dead.” For some reason, the boy doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He must be thinking of his dumb dead carrier again. Now, call Yondu callous, but it’s been seven fucking years. That’s more than enough time to get over it.

“Aw,” he sneers. “I reminding you of your momma?” He frames his chest with his hands, opting for crudeness where he can’t muster empathy. “I know I’m mighty pretty, but I ain’t got no tits you can suck –“

This time, the mug tilts sharply. Cold water slaps Yondu in the face. It’s worse than when Quill had been wringing that damn flannel. He yelps, shoving the cup away, and savours vindictive pleasure when the rest splashes on Quill.

“Idjit! What’chu thinking, boy? I gotta sleep in this bed! Now you got it all soggy!”

“You’re sweaty enough to do that yourself,” mutters Quill. He’s not looking at Yondu, or at the damp seeping through his leathers. Setting the cup to one side, he replaces the cloth on Yondu’s forehead, soaking up the worst of the wet (and ignoring the growl and warning snap at his fingers). He fishes in the collar of his stolen overcoat, drawing out the familiar orange and black headset. “I’ll let you listen, once you’ve dried off a bit. But don’t you go talking about my mom. ‘Specially not like that – else you and me are gonna have a problem, captain.”

As if the brat could stop him. Maybe it’s best to let him think he’s won this round though? Just so he’ll stay a little longer. Not that his company’s anything special – anything’s better than being left alone when you’re fighting off a fever and a cough that feels liable to catapult your trachea right out of your throat. Hell, Yondu’d make smalltalk with a Kree slaver if there was one to hand.

His implant feels like a lone cooling rod, struggling to prevent the impending meltdown. He wriggles his eyebrows to scooch the cloth higher, towards where most species have a hairline, and when Peter tuts and does it for him, he doesn’t elbow him away. “Deal,” he says, providing a hand to be shaken.

Quill gives it a solid pump. Then, rather than releasing it, tentatively cups it between his own. His small pink thumbs brush blue knuckles and lovelines and fingertips smooth from having rarely held a gun. “Deal,” he repeats.

Yondu just rolls his eyes and thanks the stars for dumb Terran sentiment.     

**Author's Note:**

> **Leave me comments to roll in. Please.**


End file.
